


The Spark

by SkywardGeek



Series: Proof of a Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Drugs, Electricity, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Fluff, He gets hurt in all my fics, Holding Hands, I swear I don't do it on purpose, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, Injury, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Moriarty - Freeform, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty was REAL, No Sex, Poor John, Psychological Torture, Psychotropic Drugs, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Spark, Torture, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Tension, did you miss me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywardGeek/pseuds/SkywardGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after season 3, not too long after. Moriarty has not shown himself since the video. John is not so happily married but is trying to make things work. Sherlock is... well, Sherlock is Sherlock. After an argument with Mary and an experiment gone wrong with Sherlock, John storms out. Can Sherlock find him before he loses his only friend?</p><p>One spark can ignite it all. </p><p>Will the spark catch fire or will it flicker and burn out?</p><p>Part of first collection.</p><p>(urgh summaries are not my forte)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing in Action

“Do I really get no say in our little girl’s name?!”  
“John, please calm down. Of course you get a say but be reasonable.”  
John turned on his heel and made towards the door, face bright red with anger. It was not an unreasonable request, not to John. Why couldn’t ‘Sherlock’ be the middle name at least? The man saved his life in more ways than one. Mary blocked his path.  
“Where are you going?” she cried, tears streaming down her face, fear rising in her voice.  
“Where do you think?” snapped back John.  
Anger made him blind and his feet moved automatically.  
“Come back soon, okay?”  
Parting words that John tried to block out as he strode out the door.

Baker Street. Calmingly familiar with the knocker of 221B always tilted slightly. A sharp rap on the door, a second of waiting and then a door flung wide open and welcoming.  
“Well come in John, don’t just stand there.”  
The tall figure of Sherlock Holmes was already up the stairs, dark blue dressing gown billowing out behind him.  
“Sherlock, can I stay here again tonight?” called John from downstairs.  
“Yes of course, tea?”  
“What?”  
“Tea, John. Would you like a cup of tea?”  
John darted up the stairs and collapsed into his familiar armchair. A cup of tea placed delicately on his side table, atop of a pile of books. John’s eyes followed Sherlock as he picked up the violin and played. The music, so soothing, made John’s anger evaporate.  
“None for you then?” as John picked up the china cup and drank deeply.  
Sherlock’s eyes always watching him, no… always observing him. Only once John finished the tea did Sherlock reply.  
“No, it was an experiment.”  
The world all at once seemed to go a little fuzzy.  
“Sher…Sherlock. Just wha… what was in the t-tea?”  
The words barely able to form now. John felt unsteady and a little nauseous as the room began to spin.  
“A little anaesthetic of my own creation. Should only knock you out for an hour. Two at the most. You’ll be fine.”  
Sherlock turned away and headed out the room. The world faded to black.

A voice. Sherlock’s voice.  
“If my arms didn’t feel so heavy I would punch him right now,” thought Watson.  
“Hmmm only half an hour. Needs improvements then,” spoke Sherlock, voice echoing around the otherwise silent flat.  
John slowly became conscious of his surroundings. He must have slid out of the chair as he was now sat on the dusty, faded red carpet. His legs covered by a burgundy blanket. Sherlock’s feet were in view, he was sat in his usual armchair, opposite John. Standing up shakily, John felt his anger once more rise to fever-pitch.  
“What am I, an experiment to you? A test subject? Why do you do this Sherlock? WHY? FRIENDS DON’T DO THIS.”  
The shout rang round the room.  
“John… I…”  
“Save it. I’m going for a walk.”

For the second time John turn his back and stormed out on someone he loved. Once outside he took a deep breath of cool crisp air and started walking. Immediately he crashed into someone.  
Dazed, Watson groaned “Sorry mate, didn’t see you there.”  
“No problem,” the cold maniacal voice replied, “so… did you miss me Watson?”  
A heavy footstep from behind, a dull heavy thud to the skull, a few droplets, and darkness again.

Blearily and groggily, Watson opened his eyes. A dark, dimly lit room, with an eerie blue glow. A buzzing sound to John’s left and right, a faint hissing sound coming from a broken pipe in front of him. The walls a dull grey colour, plaster falling apart. John could feel the dried blood on the side of his face, it cracked as he moved his jaw. At the far end of the room, directly in front of him, John could see a window, showing another room.  
“Moriarty! Get out here now!”  
“Nah, don’t think I will thanks.”  
John watched Moriarty’s hand move out of view, just beneath the window. A faint beep and John became drenched. Looking up Watson saw a mechanism set up. A droplet of water fell onto his cheek.  
“Hmm wondering why I poured water all over you? Why oh why oh why? Well it wasn’t my idea. It was his.”  
A tall, slender silhouette stepped into view. A dark coat, collar upturned. Dark hair, natural tight curls. Navy blue scarf, wrapped tightly around the figure’s neck.  
“Sherlock,” breathed John, “SHERLOCK, HELP!”  
The figure smiled and turned.  
“You are just an experiment John. Let’s see how long you last.”  
A curt nod to Moriarty signalled it. The pain began.

Day one: the current, it surged through his body. Electric pulses through the chains on his wrists. He could feel it burning as the metal grew hot. Being drenched made the pain unbearable. Blacking out would only numb the agony, but with the next shock it felt more painful than ever. John’s body tensed with each surge.  
“Yoo-hoo… he never said he was a hero. And look what he does to his friends. You are an experiment, a tool to use and discard. It was foolish to think that man a friend.”  
Moriarty’s voice filled the room. Broadcasted from speakers, there was no escape. False. All lies.  
“That’s not the Sherlock I know,” Watson cried out, voice full of agony. “It’s all lies.”

Day five: “He uses you. Did you really think he cared? He is just a selfish man.”  
Lies, all of it.  
“Sherlock was selfish but he did care for me. He must have done,” John thought.  
Arguing out loud was useless, it never stopped the words and couldn’t block out the speakers. He was weak, starving. His wrists cut apart and burned. Body tense, muscles tight and aching.  
“Sherlock wouldn’t do this,” John pleaded with himself. “Sherlock is my friend.”

Day seven, maybe eight. John was losing track of time. Daylight seemed to escape his wretched room. A familiar voice blasted onto the speakers.  
“I’m sorry John.”  
Why are you sorry?  
“WHY?”  
The last word escaped John’s lips. The silhouette turned and in a moment was gone. Pain flooded John’s mind once more. Exhausted he slipped in and out of consciousness.  
“You know he has the power to stop this. But he’s turned his back on you. Didn’t he make a vow to you? He said he would always be there. Where is he Watson? Where is your hero?”  
Moriarty’s words were torture, a pain worse than death, worse than watching Sherlock’s fall. So much worse than two years without Sherlock, feeling like the two years of mourning and hoping for miracles were wasted on a man such as Sherlock. John started to feel like truth rang from every syllable. Sherlock never understood emotions, never knew how to interact with others. He used John when he needed to.  
“He left me terrified in a Lab,” John spoke softly. “He left me waiting, grieving for two years. He walks strides ahead of me, never turning back. Maybe I am just a tool to him.”  
The silhouette of Sherlock stepped back into view.  
“Bitterness is paralytic, John.”  
“Wha-what Sherlock? What do you mean? Gaaah.”  
Another wave of electricity flooded John’s body. Looking up, Watson saw the button in the black gloved hands.  
“Sherlock, please. I beg you stop this. You are my best friend.”

All the days ran into each other. John lost track, all effort maintained on trying to stay alive, awake, and conscious. The sun, the stars, the moon, they all escaped him now. What did it matter how many times the earth went round the sun? No food, little water, so close to the edge of death, the solar system wouldn’t stop Sherlock Holmes.  
“I don’t have much hope left. Sherlock stop doing this. Please stop…”  
No voice replied this time. Only the steady dripping of water and the hiss of the pipe. Even in the dead silence voices echoed round. An experiment, a tool. Discarded when not needed. Abandoned. A broken vow.  
“YOU WERE NEVER HERE. DID ‘ALWAYS’ MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?” John screamed into the darkness. “You caused this pain, what experiment could this possibly be? We were friends…”  
His voice trailed off. ‘Were’ friends. You cannot call this a friendship. The words grew louder in John’s head; Sherlock’s voice, icy cold.  
“I don’t have friends.”

Seconds or days later a voice, insane and deranged rang out through the room.  
“Oh well what do we have here… have you finally given up on him? No longer a hero to you, is he?”  
John hung his head, refusing to meet the eyes, refusing to reveal the truth. Moriarty was right. Why keep hoping for Sherlock? Why hold out faith for an angel without wings?  
“One last jolt from your _hero_ should convince you. Nothing. But. An experiment,” taunted Moriarty menacingly.  
Sherlock stepped forward into view. The drench, then the power was flicked on. This was longer than the others. 30 seconds passed, a minute ages after, two minutes, three, four. Much longer, all part of the experiment. Unable to take the pain, John’s body shut down, knees buckled, as he slumped to the ground. Arms held up by his chains. All at once the pain stopped. Blissful and white. Exhausted and slumped against the ground, John became unconscious.

Awoken once more by the torment of electricity. Then all at once the power was shut off.  
“John, John are you okay?”  
The pale gaunt face of Sherlock ran up to join him, gliding across the room with fast panicked strides. John, struggling, backed away. Sherlock, eyes flicking over John’s crumpled body, ever observing. Burns. Fire? No, Electrical. Weight lost: about 15 pounds. Malnourished, too weak to stand. Hair and clothes are damp. No rain for three days, hasn’t been outside. The water? Torture. No sleep, weak. Needs urgent medical attention.  
“Mary call an ambulance. NOW!”  
Shivering. Cold? Temperature not low enough. Anxiety perhaps. More than that. Fear…That look, what did it mean? Betrayal…Sherlock moved closer and unchained John’s arms, who immediately scurried away from his saviour. Reaching out to touch John, to hug him, Sherlock’s slender fingers quivered as John huddled to the floor. He was too weak to sit up any longer and just slumped to the ground.  
”John, please stay with me John. John don’t go…Mary’s called an ambulance, please just stay with me. I need you John, I need you. Please”  
Weakly John struggled to get further away from Sherlock.  
“Stay with you,” he spat, “Stay with you when you chained me up to die. Shocking me whenever you could. Another experiment. That’s all you need me for. Well what did you discover this time?”  
Sherlock just fell silent. Shock overcame him. His best friend uttering these words, like he, himself, had forced this terrible fate upon John.  
“John, no I never did this. Please believe me.”  
  
Sherlock’s hands shaking as he reached out again, reaching for John. John backed away, body tensing; his reaction now to the man who electrocuted him. Sherlock’s hand fell limply to his side, voice hollow he called out,  
“Mary, please look after him.”  
The ambulance pulled up, sirens piercing the uncomfortable silence. The paramedics carefully got John into the ambulance. Mary climbed in after, Sherlock close behind.


	2. The Mind Prison

Doors slammed, sirens ear-splitting once more. Sherlock sat silent, in shock. The dead air stretched all the way to the hospital. John carried away from Holmes on a gurney, as a doctor ushered him to the side.  
“Sorry sir, family only.”  
“Please no, I am his family, let me through,” Sherlock lied desperately.  
“I'm sorry sir, I can’t let you in.”  
Mary looked back, apologetic as she strode into the hospital. Sherlock was left alone outside.

It had been three days of agony and still Sherlock had not been allowed to see John. Sat waiting for the doctor to come in and tell him it would be okay, that John was fine, that it was all a misunderstanding. A buzz from his pocket, Sherlock automatically reached for his phone. A text.  
“One spark can ignite it all.”  
Sherlock was on his feet, staring in disbelief. He ran down the corridor, straight to John. Bursting through the door, Sherlock immediately realised he made a bad decision. Detective Inspector Lestrade was standing next to John taking notes.  
“Anything else that may help, John?”  
“That’s all I remember.”  
Glancing up, John sat up and once more tried to struggle away.  
“Please John, don’t. I… I didn't do this…I'm so sorry.”  
The fear in John’s eyes and the anguish in Sherlock’s voice was intolerable. Lestrade took charge.  
“Sherlock I need you to come with me. For… questioning.”  
“Not now Graham.”  
Sherlock was out the door in an instant. Running, he darted between doctors and patients. Back to where he found John.

The room, dull, grey. The torture device still there. Seeing it, Sherlock sunk to his knees. The steady drip of water breaking the silence.  
“There must be something here. There has to be.”  
Sherlock stalked around the room, pulling out his magnifying glass. Anything would do, just some sort of clue would help. Sherlock could not sit still, he had to do something. Sat there thinking back to the past two weeks. There must be something he missed.

_The door slammed._  
 _“John…I’m sorry. I…You looked tired…”_  
 _Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he stood alone, in the hallway of 221B Baker Street. Hesitating momentarily he grabbed his coat and ran outside._  
 _“JOHN” he shouted._  
 _He stood alone, street unusually empty at midday._  
 _“He will have gone back to Mary. He must have gone back there.”_  
 _Sherlock turned back and retreated inside. A few days passed and his phone rings shrilly in the empty flat. Mary?_  
 _“Hi, Mary. How’s John? Is he still mad?”_  
 _“I thought John was with you? He was mad at me and stormed off to you.”_  
 _Sherlock froze, fear unlike anything he felt before rising through his body. Not with Mary. Not with Sherlock. Frantically Sherlock dove into his pockets, fumbling for his phone and furiously texted._  
 _“John, reply back ASAP, are you okay?”_  
 _An eternity of minutes passed with no reply. Typing desperately now to everyone in his phone-book. Not many names there._  
 _“Have you spoken to Watson? - SH”_  
 _“No of course not, what would I want with your lapdog - M”_  
 _“He is not my lapdog,” murmured Sherlock protectively, making a mental note to annoy Mycroft later.  
_ _No use. No one knows where he is._

_Sherlock took to the streets after that. Barely sleeping, not eating, he searched for any kind of clue to Watson’s whereabouts. After three days straight Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street. He approached the door, door knocker tilted slightly. But something caught his eye. A dull mottled red, which he missed in his frenetic search for his friend. It could only be John’s blood. No accidents had been reported, the paparazzi hadn't been around for weeks, and it certainly wasn't Sherlock’s. At last something to go on. The blood splatter suggested a blunt object was used to make the impact, the pattern roughly matched John’s height. Forcefully taken away._  
 _“Search all areas for unusual activity – SH”_  
 _Sherlock messaged Mycroft fiercely. A buzz a couple of minutes later._  
 _“Such as? - M”_  
 _“Anything out of the ordinary. Watson was taken. - SH”_  
 _“That could be anything. Anywhere. He might have been taken out of the country. - M”_  
 _He wouldn't have been taken out of the country. Impossible. To force a man onto a plane or ferry would be far too risky and we aren't dealing with that type of crime. Drugging would have been far tidier if the purpose was to move John Watson. No, they wanted to cause harm to him. Taking him out of the country wouldn't do that._  
 _“There are 203 places across London that have suspicious activity – M”_  
 _“Eliminate all within residential areas, too many people. Search abandoned buildings - SH”_  
 _“Still 157.”  
_ _Time to start searching._

_Day nine since John stormed out of 221B Baker Street, no sign of him. 126 buildings left. Injuries acquired: Punch to the face, sprained ankle._

_Day ten, still no sign. 89 left. Cut lip, bruised ribs, bullet graze to shin._

_Day eleven. Getting desperate. 33 left to search. Buildings searched, all empty._

_Day twelve.  Cracked rib, 3 broken toes. 0 left to search. Hopelessness setting in._

_Day thirteen. Powerful sedatives for injuries, does not help the pain. Message from Mycroft. Something new._  
 _“Possible suspicious activity. Factory under new management of Frankland LTD. Production not scheduled for another 2 months, large use of electricity for building of that size. Address is XXX Street. Might be nothing. - M”  
_ _But that was all Sherlock needed. Another glimmer of hope. A chance of finding him. John needed him, and more importantly Sherlock needed John._

_The dull grey building stood in front of him, lit only by moonlight. The building unexpectedly derelict and decrepit for new management. Front doors practically falling off the hinges, glass smashed in. Faint glow from inside. Once inside the place reeked of damp, a faint crackle could be heard, a dim bluish hue escaped from under one of the doors. He called Mary, as much as he deplored the idea, she needed to be told. Her ringtone sounded behind him._  
 _“I thought you would have a better chance of finding him. Sorry.”_  
 _Doesn't matter, she is insignificant in this._  
 _“You’re here in good time, that’s what matters.”_  
 _A moan sounded in the dimly lit room. Water dripping, pipes hissing, something crackling. In one swift movement Sherlock pulled open the door. Seeing his friend, his best friend, crumpled and battered, destroyed Sherlock. A sudden grab startled Mary as Sherlock lunged towards the wall next to her. Sherlock reached out and pulled on a heavy switch. Rusty and old, it was difficult to move. Throwing all his weight against it, the switch gave way. The power, now cut off, released Watson from the pain. Sherlock rushed over._  
 _“John, John are you okay? Mary call an ambulance. NOW!”  
_ _Mary, frozen by the door, suddenly registered the command. Sherlock freed John who moved away. His actions, change in attitude so sudden. Sherlock must be missing something._

Snapped back into reality, free from the heartache of the memory, escaping the shackles of his mind prison. He had somehow ended up sat in the exact place as before, reaching for a John who was now safely out of danger. He was missing something. The puzzle pieces weren't in the right place. What made John change so suddenly? John wasn’t so changeable. Sherlock stood up briskly. He stalked around the room looking for some kind of sign, something different to that night. No water dripping this time. No pipes groaning. Another room, Sherlock had not entered the first time he was in this long neglected building. The room was full of dust, so much so that it muffled footsteps on the hard concrete floor. Some footprints were left on the ground. One, no, two sets. The first of a fairly short man, or rather tall woman. Possible 5ft 8, maybe 5ft 9. Statistically speaking, more likely a man. The other was of a taller man. 6ft 2. The only clean thing in the room was the glass window separating Sherlock from the torture room.  
“Enjoyed the view,” cried out Sherlock bitterly.

A valve wheel, bright red and covered in hand prints caught Sherlock’s eye. Recently turned, but what does it do? Connected to a pipe. The pipe leads to the torture room. He turned the dial and ran into the room, following the pipe along the wall. It lead to the broken one, right near to where John was tormented. The pipe hissed and spluttered back to life as it breathed out gas. This was on when John was here. Someone has turned it off since. It must have something to do with him. A bell was ringing, right at the back of his mind. Frankland LTD, Gas, changeable attitude. Dogs barked far away. Hounds? H.O.U.N.D. was created by Dr. Robert Frankland. This gas led to suggestibility. But the people? The second person was 6ft 2.  
“Similar to my height, at a distance it would be near unnoticeable. Pain used to confuse the mind and add stress to the body. Starvation, reduces energy to fight back. Gas, suggestible to new ideas even when they are based on nothing.”  
Sherlock’s lips twitched slightly as he remembered back in the lab at Baskerville, John running around the place, shutting himself in a cage. Mildly amusing at the time but much less funny now. A heavy weight settled in Sherlock’s chest. The shorter of the two men was here more often, pacing. A microphone was on the desk exactly in the place where the feet stopped pacing. Slowly Sherlock turned and strode out the door and away from the building.

“Did you miss me?”  
Waiting outside for him, Moriarty stood there with a look of glee across his face.  
“I did this just for you. I gave you a game, Sherlock. One just for you,” Moriarty whispered softly, “I will burn the heart out of you. But first let’s prove once and for all that you have one. Caring is a weakness, yet you continue to care about Watson. He was _so_ easy to manipulate in _the end_. So _easy_ to play with. He took a while to break though. You picked him. _You_ picked _him_. You chose him for this. Was he something special? Someone different to the others? Your best friend, if I'm not mistaken. That’s what he kept wittering on about.”  
Moriarty’s eyes glinted, full of enjoyment. He took a step forward menacingly.  
“So how is he? Did he fall for my little act? Sherlock, come here.”  
Sherlock took a step forward.  
“No, not you. I've told you before, don’t be obvious.”  
A tall figure stepped out from the shadows. 6ft 2inches. Tightly curled black hair, fake. Wearing a wig. Scarf, dark blue. Dark Belstaff coat.  
“A brilliant imitation. I must commend your efforts, Moriarty.”  
“Thank you Sherlock. I think that is all for this evening. Well I better be off.”  
And with that he, and the fake Sherlock, were gone.

Sherlock returned to the Hospital. By now it was 2am. He sneaked into John’s room and sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair. Not feeling reassured, he dragged the chair closer. John was twitching in his sleep, a precursor for a nightmare. Hesitantly, Sherlock placed his hand on John’s. The twitching soon subsided, and John’s hand clasped at Sherlock’s.  
“I cannot be here when he wakes up, he won’t want to see me,” Sherlock murmured dejectedly.  
A few more minutes should be fine. However whenever Sherlock tried to pull away, John’s grip would tighten; clinging to him.  
“Okay, I’ll stay as long as you need.”  
Sherlock lent over, elbow resting on the edge of the bed. Weariness spread over him and soon Sherlock was fast asleep.

Dawn rose, and Sherlock awoke to find John conscious but with their hands still clasped together. Sherlock hastily released his grip and backed away, stumbling over his chair in the process. John just sat up against his pillows, looking bewildered.  
“Were you here all night?”  
“Well, since 2am”  
“Why?”  
“I wanted to check if… I wanted to make sure that you… I was just stopping by,” Sherlock finished lamely.  
“You saved me? Back there? Why?”  
“What do you mean why? Because you’re my… because I… I care about you.”  
“But you put me there?”  
“Please listen, I never did that. It was all the Hounds. Do you remember Baskerville? With H.O.U.N.D. the aerosol. That was used. Please believe me. It was a fake Sherlock, a doppelgänger. I would never, could never do that to you. You are my best friend, my only friend. P-please you aren't my experiment at all. You looked tired so I gave you the tea. You needed sleep.”  
Sherlock’s hands were shaking, his body betraying his fear once more. John’s eyes widened in surprise.  
“That was for my own good?”  
“Of course.”  
“But it was you. It was definitely you. I saw you. The coat, the scarf, the hair. I saw your face,” John said adamantly.  
“I wasn't there. I wasn't.”  
Sherlock slumped down into the chair, crestfallen. John’s eyes no longer held the terror they first had. Only a distracted look, trying to recall a memory that didn't seem to fit with the rest of the world.  
“I will find a way to prove it.”

Days were spent searching for some kind of proof. Some way of showing John that it was not Sherlock who did this. Every night Sherlock returned to the hospital. John did not seem to be healing, the burns still a bright red against pale and stretched skin. The nightmares kept returning, and each time that Sherlock took John’s hand they disappeared. Some nights Sherlock would fall asleep, their hands clasped together; others times would be more trying, with Sherlock knowing that the unsettled look would return to the currently peaceful John the minute he woke up and saw Sherlock. On those nights he slipped out and began his search before the cold light of dawn touched the earth.

Baker Street was cold and empty, lacking the warmth of his only companion. Sherlock paced the flat almost constantly in between his searches. He needed a way to prove it, a way to show he hadn't caused this mess. A rapping on the door broke his thoughts, shattering the silence of the still flat. Sherlock hurried down the stairs and flung open the door. Nothing. A mostly empty street. Only familiar faces who lived close by. Glancing down Sherlock saw something that made his stomach turn. A crutch. John’s crutch, unused since that first night together. The handle splattered in blood, the plastic fractured a little from impact. A heavy blow. A note attached, like some sort of gift tag.  
“I destroyed his current crutch so he’ll need this back.”  
The spidery writing scrawled elegantly across the paper tag. He couldn't let Moriarty get into his head. He couldn't handle another two years away. He couldn't let his crutch be destroyed. His phone vibrated violently in his hand. Ringing.  
“Mary!”  
“Sherlock, John is gone. He’s disappeared. No one at the hospital has a clue.”  
Heavy footsteps told Sherlock he was no longer alone in the flat. He felt cold metal through his shirt. The barrel of a gun pressed into the small of his back.  
“Hang up and come with me.”  
Sherlock hung up the phone and followed the doppelgänger out of the flat and into the waiting car.


	3. Gun to your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter of The Spark, hope you guys like it.

The car drove for what felt like an eternity. The gun now pressed against his temple, Sherlock could not move. The car slowed and the engine died.  
“Get out.”  
As Sherlock turned, his hair was grabbed and his head roughly pulled back. His hands were then bound tightly by a thick rope. The butt of the gun made impact with his leg. A growl whispered in his ear.  
“In case you think of running.”  
Sherlock was then dragged away, eyes darting quickly to take in surroundings. Waterloo Bridge, underneath. Deadly silent around. Closed off? Possibly. Can’t tell.  
Sherlock was dragged to full standing height, gun still pressed securely into his back. On the bench, a bound and gagged body lay, body and face covered. But Sherlock knew.  
“John.”  
It was barely more than a whisper. Moriarty stepped forth, and whipped off the bindings from John.  
“Told you I had a gift for you. Revenge. Tastes so sweet doesn’t it. You can destroy him. The moment is yours.”  
With that a gun was placed into John’s hands. He got up shakily, limp returned, tremor in his hand uncontrolled. A slight twitch of his neck. Nervous habits. He raised the gun to Sherlock. Sherlock looked away, unable to hold the gaze of the cold blue eyes.  
“No, make him look at me. Make him take a few paces back. I want to see the life leave his eyes.”  
With those words, Sherlock’s face and body was frozen, forced to stare at the man who he had given his life to, the man about to take his life. He could see Moriarty’s smug smile as he mouthed  
“I broke him. I broke your heart. Game Over.”

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“VATICAN CAMEOS”  
Instinctively Sherlock dropped to the floor, the sound of a bullet hitting flesh above his head. A body fell to the floor with a dull and sickening thud. John’s back was to Sherlock by the time he looked up. John was turning around wildly, searching.   
“FUCK. He got away. God damn it.”  
John’s legs gave in as the adrenaline faded from his system. He slumped to the floor as Sherlock dragged himself to him.   
“Why John? You could have had your revenge.”  
“But you didn’t do it. It didn’t add up. You have panicked when Semtex was attached to my body, you have jumped off a building for me, you have saved me from being burnt alive and you have shot a lunatic in the head to protect me. So why would you team up with Moriarty? The experiments that _you_ did were never dangerous. Or at least would never affect my health long term. Once the drugs or whatever were gone the face of the man wasn’t yours. It was his,” He glared savagely down at the dead man on the ground, “nothing added up. You in the hospital with me was the main bit of proof.”  
“That doesn’t _prove_ anything.”  
“Okay then. Call it a gut feeling.”  
“I thought you were going to kill me. You looked so certain.”  
“I was, but not about killing you. About protecting you. One moment I was in hospital, someone increased my morphine or something, I fell asleep. The next moment I was bound and gagged here. I may not be the most observant,” a quick glance to Sherlock, “but you were hit in the leg and your hands were bound. You were limping. You were forced to be here. If you had been working with Moriarty you wouldn’t be in that situation. I had to act it all. I’m sorry Sher-”  
John’s words were cut short as Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking.   
“Sher-Sherlock… Are you… Are you crying?”  
Quickly John undid the ties on Sherlock’s hand, and barely a moment missed as the detective threw his arms around John.  
“I thought I had lost you. I thought you would leave me. Don’t ever even try to apologise again John. None of this was your fault, if it wasn’t for me, the tea, I am so sorry. John please forgive me. I am so sorry. John. Please don’t leave me John.”  
John could feel his shoulder getting wet, as his detective sobbed unrestrainedly, shoulders quaking with emotion. He ruffled his mop of curls (severely in need of washing) and tried to lift Sherlock’s face up to meet his eyes. His exhausted eyes, filled with fear and pain where usually only blankness resided. John dragged Sherlock to his feet.   
“We should both get back to the hospital. And see Greg.”  
“I’m fine, I don’t need the hospital. And who is Greg?”  
“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, you have known him for years. You really should learn his name. And you aren’t fooling me Sherlock. You have a cracked rib, broken toes, and probably a fractured knee cap now. We are going to hospital.”  
Despite his commanding tone John’s body was still weak. As he stood, he swayed on the spot for a moment before dropping back down and consequently passing out, leaning against Sherlock. His body was so much lighter than Sherlock remembered. Sherlock pulled out his phone (which oddly enough was never taken from him, Moriarty was getting sloppy) and dialled for 999.

When they arrived at the hospital both of them had been set up on IV drips, but Sherlock refused to settle in a bed. He dragged a chair as close as physically possible to John’s bed and refused to move from his chosen spot. Sherlock didn’t want to lose sight of John for another moment. Once John was asleep he coiled his hand around John’s, gripping it close to him. John looked so peaceful, not a trace of a nightmare visible on his features. This eased Sherlock’s mind somewhat and allowed him to settle into an uneasy sleep.

John woke up with a jolt, tangled in white bed sheets, nose stinging at the smell of too-strong disinfectant. Hospital. Something warm was pressing into his left hand. He looked down and smiled. Sherlock’s hands were twisted in his as the detective was lost in sleep, cheek pressing slightly against his leg. He looked scared, even in slumber. Sherlock’s face twisted in pain as he murmured an incomprehensible soliloquy in his sleep.  
“N… Don’t…Joh…Not…Hurt…Heart…Game Over…Always…Never leave…I said Always…I lo…”  
Abruptly, Sherlock sat bolt upright, vicelike grip tightening around John’s hand. It was almost painful, John winced a little. Obviously not going unnoticed by the all-seeing detective. Sherlock breathed out and relinquished his hold. John had never seen Sherlock in such a state.  
“Hey… hey… Sherlock. It’s okay. I am right here. You know where we are? We are in hospital. St Bart’s to be exact. Mycroft sorted it for us. You okay?”  
Before Sherlock could answer a sharp tap on the door, then it burst open. Their hands sprang apart as a rag-tag group came to wish them well. Molly Hooper (chatting cheerily to Sherlock), Lestrade (clapping John on the shoulder), Anderson (hesitantly approaching Sherlock), Donovan (standing awkwardly in the corner), and even Mycroft graced the ward with his presence (giving John an infuriatingly knowing look). Something puzzled John though. Someone was missing from this picture. A very pregnant wife was nowhere to be seen.  
“Where’s Mary?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next one of this series coming out soon (well, once it is written), and a separate fanfic soon.


End file.
